


Of Fools and Kings

by epeolatry



Series: Sexual Revolution [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, Light BDSM, M/M, No Explicit Consent, Recreational Drug Use, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 01:52:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epeolatry/pseuds/epeolatry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Enjolras definitely has no feelings, and Grantaire definitely doesn't care anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Fools and Kings

It was a Tuesday evening exactly one week after the Enjolras incident, and the seedy one bedroom apartment shared by Grantaire and Éponine was raucous with laughter and thick with smoke and cursing. Bahorel’s considerable frame was spread across the one small sofa, a hand sporting two split knuckles resting over his bandaged ribs and a dark contusion forming on the right side of his grimacing face. Bossuet, a dark-skinned dropout with a shaven head and an eyebrow piercing, performed an amusing re-enactment of the amateur bare-knuckle boxing match that had resulted in Bahorel’s injuries.

“And then this tiny little guy – five foot nothing, I swear! – just ducks under and twats him a good one on the cheek. He went down like a tonne of bricks! Fucking David versus Goliath, man! Lost me fifty quid but it was worth it to watch this guy hit the floor!”

Montparnasse lounged easily against the foot of the occupied sofa looking dangerous and dapper as usual, his dark hair slicked into a casual pompadour and the studs on the shoulders of his leather jacket gleaming dully in the light. The dandy was alternating between taking deep drags on the joint that was being passed around and leaving love bites on the neck of his new boyfriend, who lay across his lap. The fair haired boy was a student, the only one of the group who had anywhere to be the next morning, and he was wearing an eccentric combination of clashing floral prints that made Grantaire’s fingers itch for a paintbrush.

Grantaire himself was lying sprawled on the floor, laughing lazily around his cigarette with a bottle of cheap wine clutched in one hand. He was content. Soon Feuilly, Éponine, and Musichetta would be arriving, the carpenter having picked the two girls up from their shifts on his way home from work. Feuilly had also promised to bring along some wood paint swiped from the workshop, as Grantaire had run out of both acrylics and ready cash.

The flat was small and cheap and nasty, two steps away from squalid and unlikely to have been considered habitable by anyone other than a couple of perpetually broke twenty-somethings who would otherwise have been homeless. Between them, Grantaire and Éponine owned exactly one sofa, one table, two rickety wooden chairs (one of which lacked a seat), and one old double mattress that reposed dustily on their bare bedroom floor. Nevertheless, the sparsely furnished step-up from a hovel had become the meeting point of their little gang, and the grimy space often accommodated seven or more of their vagrant friends, depending on who at the time was jobless (usually Bossuet), laying low (Bahorel), in trouble with money (Feuilly), an ex (Musichetta), or the law (Montparnasse).

Grantaire liked it best this way, loud with voices and colourful with language, when he didn’t have much time to dedicate to his own thoughts and reveries, or any time to himself at all.

As Bahorel wrestled a shrieking Bossuet off the couch despite his bruised ribs, the front door banged open and in stepped Feuilly followed closely by Musichetta and Éponine who shouted, “What up, bitches?” and was clearly still buzzing from her shift at the strip club, where it was her custom to do a line of coke for every pole that she twirled around.

Feuilly’s rough tradesman’s hands deposited two tins of wood paint – red and black – beside Grantaire, who offered up his bottle in thanks and eagerly pried the lid off one tin with a bottle opener. Dark-haired and dusky-skinned Musichetta followed this offering with a fresh bottle of wine swiped from behind the bar she worked at. The artist took a gulp from the bottle and drew a quick, sloppy sketch with the thick paint on the nearest wall (one of the advantages of living in a condemned building), attempting to capture the chaotic florals of Montparnasse’s boyfriend.

_Jehan_ , he reminded himself.

The kid was nestled between the criminal’s legs, happily toking on a joint while Montparnasse argued amiably with Bossuet and carded his lithe fingers through Jehan’s fair hair.

“You’re missing the point, the law may say that theft is wrong but there are higher laws than those made up by governments- ”

“Like the law of God? Like, ‘Thou shalt not steal’? Ring any bells?” Bossuet teased.

It was foolishness to get into a legal debate with the law school dropout and Montparnasse knew it, but he was stoned enough to try defending his habits anyway.

“Like the law of the land, the law of survival! I steal to survive.”

“And those skinny jeans were essential to your survival, yeah?”

“Precisely.”

Meanwhile, Éponine had settled herself on the sofa alongside Bahorel and was talking a million miles a minute while he nodded his bruised head in bemusement.

“It’s been a crazy night, well not really crazy, but I guess it could still get crazy, it’s been more _wild_ than crazy I guess, you know what I mean? Of course you do. Anyway it’s been, like- ”

Ginger-bearded Feuilly was ensconced cross-legged in a corner smoking like a chimney, a cigarette in one rough hand and the joint just passed to him by Montparnasse in the other, with Grantaire’s wine at his feet.

Suddenly the opening beats of David Guetta’s ‘Sexy Bitch’ blasted through the chatter and laughter and turned everyone’s heads to the unexpected and frankly foreign sound. Jehan calmly reached into the pocket of his floral skinny jeans and withdrew his wailing phone, seemingly oblivious to the stares of the others as he answered.

“Hi Courf… Yeah… Well, I’m kinda… No, I’ll be there soon. Bye.”

Montparnasse was stroking Jehan’s fair hair while staring coolly around the room, as if daring any of the others to comment on his lover’s choice of ringtone. As usual, Éponine was the only one to show no fear in the face of Montparnasse’s glare.

“What the fuck was that?”

“That was Courfeyrac,” answered Jehan brightly, “Sorry guys, it’s been lovely but I have to go – Enjolras has called an emergency meeting.”

At the sound of the law student’s name Grantaire’s hand stopped dead, halfway through a painted flourish of Jehan’s hair. Thankfully, no one noticed his sharp reaction. Now, if he just continued his sketch-

“Grantaire’s boyfriend, you mean?” asked Éponine impishly, immediately refocussing all attention on the struggling artist.

Grantaire, facing the wall, thankfully had a moment in which to compose his facial expression before turning to the others and scoffing, “That marble statue with a stick up his arse? Like hell! If I want lessons in masochism I’ll take them from Bahorel.”

“He stayed here after that riot last week,” she confided to the listening crowd with a sly smile, “You should have seen ‘Taire! All over him like a lovesick puppy!”

“He had a head wound. He collapsed on me,” grumbled Grantaire.

“And you just _happened_ to be shirtless at the time…”

“ _You_ were wearing my shirt!”

A dreamy sigh interrupted their argument; it came from Jehan, who had his hands clasped under his chin and a look of ecstasy on his lightly freckled face as he asked, “Do you love him?”

“What? I don’t know… No!” stuttered Grantaire, startled by the candidness of the question.

Another sigh escaped Jehan’s lips as Montparnasse smirked beside him, arms wound protectively around the literature student’s slim waist in a silent warning.

“Maybe if you get to know him,” reflected Jehan, still smiling amid the incredulous faces around him, “I’m sure he must get lonely… Enjolras says he’s perfectly happy alone, but I think that everyone needs someone, sometimes. Perhaps he just hasn’t met the right person?”

Grantaire realised that his mouth was hanging open in a gape of surprise. No one in his group of friends was very forthcoming about their feelings, and their friendships were based more on rough and tumble and hazy shared memories of nights spent drinking and fighting, rather than on deep and meaningful heart to hearts. Jehan’s sensitivity was an unknown quantity in the room of dropouts and drug dealers, and the facial expressions of the others reflected the surprise felt by Grantaire.

Jehan meanwhile was totally unconcerned by the odd looks he was getting. He stood, stretched gracefully, bent to plant a kiss on Montparnasse’s smooth cheek and again addressed Grantaire, “If you’d like to get to know him better he’s usually at the Café Musain, or at home with Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Marius – they share a house two streets away from the university.”

Then he turned to the rest of the room and said politely but with every indication of complete sincerity, “Good night everybody, it was lovely to see you all,” and let himself out.

The quiet remained even after the door clicked shut behind him. Finally, Éponine said to Montparnasse, “Your new boyfriend is crazy.”

The bad boy shrugged, “True. But he’s dynamite in bed.”

And normalcy returned.

After another few bottles were drained, joints passed, and arguments begun, the night started to get messy. Feuilly managed to get Bahorel in a headlock and both of them went tumbling off the sofa and onto the floor. As he hit the ground Bahorel grunted loudly and one huge, bruised hand shot to his ribcage as he winced in pain.

“Oh shit, sorry mate!” apologised Feuilly, helping the amateur boxer unsteadily to his feet despite being smaller in stature and more heavily intoxicated.

“I think I’ve had enough for the night,” grimaced Bahorel, making his way to the door with a pronounced limp.

“I’ll come with you,” offered Feuilly with a yawn, “I’m knackered.”

A chorus of disapproval rose from their assembled friends at this, but Feuilly laughed it off, “Maybe when you lot get real, proper jobs that involve actually working and getting up early and being on time you’ll understand!”

A diminished chorus of grumbling answered this and the ginger-haired carpenter laughingly threw a two-fingered salute back at his friends before helping Bahorel out the door and down the stairs.

When they reached street level Bahorel shrugged off Feuilly’s arm, insisting, “I can walk on my own without a pipsqueak like you propping me up!”

“Whatever,” snorted Feuilly good-naturedly as Bahorel hobbled along.

They shared a flat not too far from Grantaire & Éponine’s, though in a slightly nicer part of town thanks to Feuilly’s fairly reliable pay cheques. Feuilly lit up a cigarette as they walked in the cool air, listening to Bahorel grunting painfully with each step until the carpenter sighed, “Are you going to ask for help, or just whinge all night like a little girl?”

“Fine,” snorted the boxer, “Can you please come here and help me.”

“There’s a good boy,” Feuilly grinned, ducking the half-hearted swipe aimed at him before heaving one of Bahorel’s thick arms over his shoulders and taking some of the boxer’s weight. They weaved unsteadily the rest of the way home, Bahorel staggering under the combined effects of pain and intoxication, and Feuilly rather too drunk to be attempting to support anyone else, especially no one as large as Bahorel.

When they finally reached the flat Feuilly managed to get the door open after a few minutes of frustrated fiddling, and then deposited Bahorel in his room.

“’Night,” he said and turned to go, but Bahorel’s hand shot out and caught his wrist.

“Stay.”

“Oh for fuck sake, not this again!” Feuilly was the one wincing now; whenever Bahorel was hurt in a fight he got clingy, and whenever he was drunk he got horny – the resultant equation was not something Feuilly particularly liked to be present for.

“ _Stay_ ,” ordered Bahorel more forcefully, his bruised knuckles clenching tighter around Feuilly’s callused hand.

The carpenter rolled his eyes, “I have work in the morning, I can’t stay here all night playing nursemaid. It’s just a couple of bruised ribs, nothing you haven’t recovered from before.”

“You could be a naughty nurse…” Bahorel’s eyes glittered nastily in the dark and Feuilly flinched away from the libidinous boxer, doing his best to ignore any stirrings that may or may not have been beginning in the pit of his own stomach.

“Bahorel, _no_ ,” hissed Feuilly, struggling to prise the strong, insistent fingers off him, “Not tonight, _not ever again_ , I told you last time, I- Mmph!”

Bahorel yanked hard and Feuilly sprawled over the bed, half on Bahorel and half on the mattress, missing all of the bruised parts of his friend more by luck than by design. The boxer’s bruised lips crushed into his flatmate’s and the larger man expertly rolled over, pinning Feuilly beneath him and yanking both of the tradesman’s rough hands above his head.

**

Jehan arrived at the emergency meeting in the Café Musain both late and stoned, two things that were sure to catch Enjolras’ attention. It wasn’t really fair to chastise the poet for this behaviour as the meeting had been such a last minute arrangement (a mitigating circumstance which Combeferre dutifully pointed out to Enjolras as they all filed out of the Café), but Enjolras still insisted on asking Jehan for a private word.

“Jehan, are you okay?”

“Sure,” smiled the poet.

“ _Are_ you? This was a serious meeting tonight and you’ve arrived not only late but also intoxicated,” The meeting had not really been terribly serious; it had simply been a notification of a date change for an upcoming protest march which could have been delivered by text message, but Enjolras was a stickler for efficient planning and time management, “- This new boyfriend of yours… You know I disapprove. _We_ disapprove, all of us. He’s part of a bad crowd Jehan, and he’s introducing you to casual vice.”

“Enjolras, please,” said Jehan quietly but firmly, trying to keep himself from rolling his large, blue eyes, “I know you don’t like ‘Parnasse, but _I_ like him. I _love_ him, in fact. And he loves me. And I’ve smoked weed and enjoyed sodomy since high school, so I don’t think he’s really that bad an influence on me… Besides,” he added with a mischievous twinkle, as Enjolras curled his lip at the word ‘sodomy’, “I don’t think it’s _my_ love life you ought to be worrying about.”

“What do you mean?” asked Enjolras indifferently.

“I mean that Grantaire – one of ‘Parnasse’s _bad crowd_ – really likes you.”

“Grantaire? No. Not possible.”

“Why not?”

“Because he has a girlfriend.”

“Does he?”

“I saw her that morning after the protest when I woke up on his sofa. She came out of his bedroom wearing only her underwear and his shirt.”

“Éponine?”

“I think so.”

“Ah,” smiled Jehan, his panic at Grantaire’s apparent indiscretion evaporating, “She’s just his flatmate. “

“I don’t think so,” Enjolras shook his head stubbornly, “Not unless they’re flatmates like Courfeyrac and Combeferre are flatmates.”

Jehan’s face fell into a shocked expression, then he burst out laughing.

“They think I don’t know,” Enjolras said with a wry smile, “Just because I’m not inclined towards casual fornication myself doesn’t mean I don’t notice when others are. Especially not with all the noise Courfeyrac makes!”

Jehan looked positively delighted, “I’m so glad I don’t have to keep my mouth shut about that anymore! How long have you known?”

“About as long as it’s been happening. I’m tactful Jehan, not blind.”

“Well, you seem to be to Grantaire.”

“I told you, he’s not interested. And furthermore you know me well enough to know that _I’m_ not interested in that nonsense.”

“What nonsense? _Love?_ ” asked Jehan, looking a little hurt.

“Yes. No. I recognise love as a powerful force in the world, but I chose not to partake in it myself. I’ve never felt any inclination towards all that hand holding, date nighting, constantly texting _bondage_ to another human being. No, I’ve seen how detrimental it can be first hand, have you noticed how Marius’ grades have been slipping lately?”

Jehan giggled at the word ‘bondage’ and said slyly, “Well, what about the other side of it?”

“What other side? You mean the naked, sweaty, flailing of limbs that ends in messy ejaculation and an awkward morning after? Why would I possibly want that? Courfeyrac does enough of it for all of us I should think.”

Jehan sighed; clearly he was getting nowhere, “Well, if you ever change your mind I’m quite sure that I know one person who would be happy to hold your hand, or engage in a messy flailing of limbs with you…”

Enjolras pressed his lips together in a thin, hard line of disapproval, and followed Jehan out of the Café. And if he fell asleep that night thinking of a certain cynical artist’s lithe limbs and paint-smeared fingers, well, no one had to know.

**

Feuilly had worked hard every day of his life since dropping out of high school; he had started as a sixteen-year-old unskilled labourer and made his way through various building sites, garages, and factory floors before finally completing his carpentry apprenticeship. Partly as a result of this continued daily exertion and partly due to good genetics, his freckled shoulders were brawny, his hands strong and callused, his arms well developed and muscular, his back broad, and he was not easily pushed around. Bahorel however was bigger. The mohawk-sporting amateur boxer was the only one in the group physically larger and stronger than Feuilly, and as a result the only one who could have possibly put him in this position.

Feuilly was thrashing from side to side, trying to escape the bruising, unwanted kiss. The boxer kept him easily restrained, his pierced tongue demanding, his hips grinding down on the body beneath him as much as possible without hurting his own ribs. Finally Bahorel relented, pulling away just enough to let his roommate breathe.

Feuilly gasped out angrily, “I told you last time! Never again! It fucking hurts! And _I. Don’t. Like. Dick!_ ”

“No homo,” grinned Bahorel as he tried to seize Feuilly’s lips again, but was evaded. Careless dark stubble grazed carefully maintained ginger beard.

“I mean it, man,” Feuilly’s anger had dissipated into a whine, and an experimental shift of Bahorel’s hips confirmed that Feuilly’s body was certainly not objecting to the rough treatment as much as his mouth was.

Realising what was fast becoming self-evident, Feuilly’s freckled face coloured as he started, “It’s a physiological reaction man, it’s just animal instinct, dumb animal flesh, it’s…” he sighed as Bahorel rocked his hips down again, unable to deny what his body was already begging for, “Ok fine. But you’re _not_ putting it in me again. That shit hurt!”

“That’s what you said last time,” purred Bahorel, “And then you _begged_ me for it.”

“Why don’t _you_ try being on the bottom for once,” grumbled Feuilly, but his half-hard cock twitched in his trousers and his struggling arms had gone limp under his friend’s tight hold.

Bahorel leant down and kissed Feuilly more softly now that the carpenter had submitted and was no longer trying to escape. The kiss was almost tender, both men tasting of smoke and wine, Bahorel’s lower lip split and swollen and the familiar scent of wood shavings coming off Feuilly’s work clothes as he pressed himself up against the larger body.

Bahorel groaned deeply as he rutted against Feuilly, his erection rubbing hotly against the other man through frustrating layers of material. Feuilly responded, writhing beneath his bruised flatmate, restrained hands clutching at bloodied knuckles.

Bahorel growled, reaching down suddenly and grabbing Feuilly’s belt with one hand while the other continued to pin down the carpenter’s rough hands. He fiddled for a moment, bruised fingers made clumsy by drink, but eventually he released the clasp and as Feuilly canted his hips upward into the boxer’s groin the length of leather was roughly removed.

Bahorel smirked into their kiss and Feuilly pulled away with a wary look, “What are you…?”

But the belt was already looped around his wrists and snapped tight, secured to the wrought iron bed-head and immobilising his strong arms.

“The fuck, man!” Feuilly spat, beginning to panic again as Bahorel laughed coarsely and stroked his bearded face gently in tender contrast to the rough, sloppy kisses that he planted down the struggling man’s jaw line and throat.

As Feuilly continued to protest against being tied up, Bahorel nipped lightly at his neck, working his way down the man’s shoulders and unbuttoning his plaid shirt for better access to his broad chest.

“Please,” whimpered Feuilly as Bahorel sucked a nipple into his mouth and teased it with his teeth; even the carpenter was no longer aware of exactly what he was begging for as Bahorel started palming his flatmate’s stiff cock through his dusty trousers. The boxer continued to work his mouth down the toned chest and flat stomach until he reached the waistband and swiftly unbuttoned the trousers.

Feuilly’s hips bucked up of their own accord as a soft groan escaped him, and Bahorel smiled up at his tied flatmate, “I thought you wanted me to stop?”

Feuilly stared down at the larger man, his green eyes hot with indecision as he muttered, “Fuck you.”

“Maybe another time,” grinned Bahorel wickedly, wrenching the trousers down Feuilly’s hips and drawing a startled grunt from the other man as his stiff cock was suddenly exposed to the cool air of the apartment.

Then a sharp gasp cut through the dark room as Bahorel drew Feuilly’s cock into his mouth, just taking the tip at first and swiping his pierced tongue over the sensitive head, tasting salt and sweat and relishing the stutter of the other man’s hips as he moved his mouth further down the length.

Feuilly’s wrists were still dragging insistently against their bonds but for different reasons now; he was groaning loudly, unashamedly, as Bahorel’s hot mouth slid up and down his cock, the boxer doing his best to take it when Feuilly’s hips thrust raggedly into his throat despite not being terribly experienced in sucking dick.

Feuilly’s groans became a litany of mixed curse words and encouragement, damning Bahorel as much as praising him as his mouth drove the carpenter to distraction, “You fucking… Fuck! Just… Oh my god, yeah, suck me! Fucking take it you selfish wanker! _Yes!”_

His hips snapped up into Bahorel’s mouth and the boxer gagged, pulling away to catch his breath as Feuilly panted and writhed beneath him.

“’Selfish wanker’?” He smiled filthily, “ _You’re_ the one face-fucking a guy with a split lip!” And sure enough there was a trickle of blood making its way down Bahorel’s chin where his wound had been reopened by Feuilly’s demanding thrusts.

“You started it,” grunted Feuilly sulkily, his cock achingly hard and twitching with need as it lay heavily against his flat stomach.

“And what are you gonna do about it?” smirked Bahorel; Feuilly’s hands were tied and as his trousers had only been pushed down to mid-thigh in their hurry, his movement was severely restricted.

The carpenter rolled his eyes, “Who knew you were such a kinky little faggot.”

“Says the man begging me to suck his cock!” laughed Bahorel as he carefully removed his own shirt, revealing a heavily muscled torso interrupted by a white bandage stretched over his ribs and a number of scattered, fist-sized bruises.

“I never begged,” muttered Feuilly, looking away with anger in his blackly lustful eyes.

“Hey, come on,” wheedled Bahorel, stripping off his trousers as well so that now they were both exposed, his cock just as hard as Feuilly’s and already leaking from the slit, “I’ll make it worth your while, you know that…”

Feuilly’s body shuddered as he recalled vividly the last time they’d been drunk and horny – Bahorel had taken him roughly over the dining table, and although he hadn’t entirely enjoyed the experience, he’d still come with an ecstatic shout of his flatmate’s name – and the time before that, when Bahorel had sucked him off so well he’d almost blacked out, and he had swum back into consciousness to find himself handed a cigarette and a beer, which had of course led to round two…

Their very first time Feuilly had passed out in his room during a party and awoken groggily to find Bahorel pressed up against him, brushing bruised fingers through his ginger hair and mumbling incoherently about the girl who had just broken up with the boxer that morning. Bahorel had been drunk out of his mind and who could blame Feuilly if he’d woken up with an erection? The maudlin boxer’s knuckles had brushed against the bulge in the carpenter’s trousers and they’d been unable to stop themselves.

All of these memories crowded in on Feuilly’s drunken mind, making his cock stir yet more insistently as Bahorel circled his large hand around it and pumped lazily.

“Oh for fuck sake...” he groaned, tossing his head back on the pillow, and Bahorel knew his flatmate well enough to take the profanity as consent.

He slid back up the leaner man’s body, still keeping his grip on Feuilly’s leaking cock, and with his other hand he rummaged clumsily in his bedside drawer, cursing under his breath until he managed to close his fingers around the lube he kept ‘just in case’.

Capturing Feuilly’s lips in a sloppy, blood-slicked kiss before the restrained man could protest the introduction of lube (and its attendant implications), Bahorel thumbed open the tube, withdrew his hand from Feuilly’s cock and slicked it with far too much liquid, before pushing his hand back down between their rutting bodies and grabbing both his own and Feuilly’s cocks in one large, hot, wet fist.

Feuilly groaned hoarsely into Bahorel’s mouth and the boxer swallowed the sound with a growl of his own, his neglected cock throwing shivers up his spine at finally being touched, albeit by his own hand.

Feuilly thrust desperately into Bahorel’s fist, all pretence at resistance abandoned in the face of the wet friction he was trapped in between strong fingers and Bahorel’s solid length. The boxer continued stroking them together, encouraged by Feuilly’s volubility.

“Fucking fuck, yes! Like _that_ , oh fuck me I’m gonna- Jesus fucking Christ, it’s- _Fuck!”_

Feuilly yelled once, sharply, as he came in Bahorel’s fist and across their tightly pressed stomachs. Bahorel grunted and continued stroking them together, once, twice, thrice more until Feuilly was spent completely and the boxer just beginning, fresh ropes of come spurting from him just as Feuilly’s seed had barely begun to cool.

They lay together for a few moments, Bahorel pressed on top of Feuilly with the aftermath of their orgasms drying messily between them and their breathing evening out in the dark room.

“Are you gonna get off me then?” asked Feuilly hoarsely, and Bahorel knew that the other man was itching for a cigarette, because when was Feuilly not itching for a cigarette? And he often proclaimed that the very best cigarettes were enjoyed post-coitally.

“Aw, you don’t want to cuddle?” teased Bahorel as he peeled himself stickily off his friend, noting that the bandage over his ribs would probably need a clean replacement.

“No homo,” replied Feuilly in a serious voice, but Bahorel could see his dopey smile in the half-light.

The boxer leant carefully over his flatmate and untied the callused hands from the bedpost, wincing as he realised how much worse his ribs felt after all their rutting and writhing. Feuilly massaged his wrists and looked disgustedly down at the mess spread across his and Bahorel’s bellies.

“Fancy a shower?” suggested the boxer.

“You fucking queer!” laughed Feuilly, throwing a mock punch to one of the few unbruised spots on his flatmate’s muscular chest.

“Is that a no?”

A moment’s pause as Feuilly clambered out from underneath the larger man and finally shrugged his trousers all the way off. Then he stood and walked to the door, turning on the threshold and calling back, “Come on then, ya big poof.”


End file.
